


A World Without Words

by That_random_weirdo



Category: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Gen, Jan Van Eck´s A+ parenting, Learning Disabilities (sorta?), Young Wylan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 13:35:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18235601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_random_weirdo/pseuds/That_random_weirdo
Summary: Wylan hated it. He hated the looks, the disappointment, the feeling of being a failure. He hated himself.But he hated the words more.Words were what was wrong with him. Words were the enemy.So he cast them away as much as he could.





	A World Without Words

Wylan was four when he knew that something was wrong.

No matter what the tutors did or how hard he tried, he couldn’t make sense of the markings on the page that were supposedly words. He knew his father would be disappointed when he found out. 

So he learned to fake it. He memorized the stories his father read and tucked the words away into his mind. And when his father asked him to try to read, he would simply recite what he had learned. 

It was the perfect system. And yet, it only delayed the inevitable. 

Wylan was six when he learned to play the flute. For the first time, he could have a world without words. For the first time, he could forget about his troubles with reading. It was only him, the music instructor, the sheets of notes, and his flute. 

It was amazing, and Wylan grew to depend on it far too much.

And in the end, that was his downfall.

He was eight years old when his father finally discovered the truth. 

Suddenly, there were no more stories, no more looks of pride. The doting parent that had so adored him became cold. There was no more talk of him being the Van Eck heir, no fond comments on his progress in his schoolwork. Only looks of loathing and thinly veiled insults remained.

Wylan hated it. He hated the looks, the disappointment, the feeling of being a failure. He hated himself.

But he hated the words more.

Words were what was wrong with him. Words were the enemy. 

So he cast them away as much as he could.

He stopped talking for a while, at least until it became necessary to speak in order to progress in his studies of language. He clung to his flute training, and spent much of the day alone. He immersed himself in symbols and equations. He blocked out the pain and anger, ignored his father’s barbed words.

Music flowed easily, came to him the way words never did. Math and chemistry just made sense, and felt natural. 

Wylan’s one success with words was in his speech.

He had easily mastered Fjerdan, Ravkan, Shu, and was fluent in many others. He hoped that maybe, just maybe, his success would win his father’s approval, stop the taunts, stop the hatred. It didn’t.

His father still hated him. His father still thought he was useless.

His father was still never satisfied.

Eventually, Jan Van Eck gave up pretense altogether. He sent Wylan away to a music school, where he would be out of the way, where he would be happy.

At least, Wylan thought he did.

It was pretty clear that his father wanted him gone. But Wylan had underestimated the lengths to which he would go to get his way. The assassination attempts made him rethink the limits of those lengths. 

As Wylan lay on the cold, boarding house bed, he clutched his flute case as close as he could, the silver buckles digging into his thin skin. His world was dissolving all around him, and he was left with no words, no money, and no family. Blood welled up in beads along the edges of the buckles, but Wylan didn’t dare release the instrument.  
How could he let go now, when all else had forsaken him?

He couldn’t, not now, not ever.

Not when music was all he had left.


End file.
